


The End of the Road

by zelda_zee



Category: Lost
Genre: M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 13:51:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zelda_zee/pseuds/zelda_zee





	The End of the Road

Sayid didn’t end up with the life he deserves; he has no illusions about that. The life he deserves doesn’t involve actually being alive.

He’d never counted on surviving. Hadn’t planned for it; had made no preparation, mental or physical. He had never wasted time considering the ramifications of returning from the island for a second time and being expected to create some kind of life for himself out of the burned and twisted wreckage of his former existence. He was, he found upon their return – the return of the Oceanic 6 and with them, the remaining 815 survivors – completely incapable of even knowing where to begin.

 _It isn’t right_ , he says to Jack, sitting on the couch in Jack’s sunny living room in Los Angeles three months after the second return. Sayid had knocked on Jack’s door out of the blue and even though Jack has enough on his plate just trying to hold himself together and do what he can for the rest of them, he still takes Sayid in. He’s Jack, after all.

Sayid goes to Jack because he doesn’t know what else to do. He realizes it's selfish and inconsiderate to take advantage of Jack in this way, just because, whatever his own burdens, Jack won’t refuse him. Sayid doesn't even have to say anything - he just meets Jack's eyes as he stands there on his doorstep and Jack gets it - he's been there himself, after all, dangling over the abyss with a mind full of blood and death and darkness. The only options Sayid has been able to come up with are going to Jack or putting a gun in his mouth and blowing all that darkness to hell. Sayid isn’t sure why he’s gone with Jack, why he doesn’t just take the easy way out – though maybe it's because it _is_ the easy way. The easy way isn’t something that Sayid feels he deserves.

 _Survivor’s guilt_ , Jack calls it, says they all suffer from it to some extent, but they both know that doesn’t quite cover it, at least not where Sayid is concerned.

“I think that I have reached the end of the road, Jack. I do not think that I can go on,” Sayid says quietly, his eyes filled with tears. He is no longer able to maintain his façade, all his practiced cold stoicism and precise competence in tatters at his feet. All he has left is the truth, stark and ugly. “I should be dead. I should be burning in Hell.” He blinks, his eyes burning. He reaches for the glass of water in front of him on the table, but his hand is shaking and he quickly draws it back. “I never thought I would come back. I was supposed to die on the island.” His voice sinks to a whisper. “I was supposed to die there.”

“But you didn’t,” Jack says. Sayid glances at him. Jack's expression is not without sympathy, but Sayid knows that Jack has only so much to spare for him. There are plenty of others trying to adjust to having survived – plenty who haven’t done the terrible things that Sayid has and who deserve more of Jack’s sympathy. “And now you have to deal with that.”

“How? How can I deal with that, Jack?” Sayid studies Jack’s face, hoping he has the answer.

Jack just looks at him out of old, tired eyes and sighs. “I don’t know, Sayid. But you weren’t meant to die there. None of us were.”

“I wish – I wish I had not returned. I could have stayed. I could have walked into the sea or disappeared into the jungle. But in the end, I was a coward. I did not want to be left behind.”

“You couldn’t have stayed. The island wouldn’t have let you.”

Sayid’s lips twist humorlessly. “You sound like Locke.”

“Yeah, well. It turns out he got a few things right.”

Jack makes up the bed in his guest room and in the morning when Sayid goes to butter his toast he can’t find a knife, and when he opens Jack’s medicine cabinet in search of aspirin there are no razor blades and no prescription bottles.

“You’ll stay here,” Jack says, in a voice that brooks no argument. Sayid doesn’t think he has it in him to argue anyway.

“How do you know I won’t kill you?” Sayid is sitting on the sofa in his boxers, staring at the floor.

Jack rolls his eyes. “I know.”

Sayid spends the days in a gray haze, laying on the bed in Jack’s guest room. Jack comes and goes, getting on with his life, Sayid supposes. He doesn’t really pay enough attention to know if Jack works or socializes or just goes out for long walks. All Sayid knows is that sometimes he’s there and sometimes he’s gone. Sayid stays in his room with the blinds closed and the door shut and when Jack comes in to check on him Sayid lies still and deepens his breathing and Jack leaves again without speaking.

In the evening Jack makes Sayid sit beside him on the couch and watch baseball, an interminable game that seems to be on almost every night, the viewing of which doesn’t help mitigate Sayid’s depression. Jack makes sure Sayid eats and drinks and he tries to get Sayid to go to a psychiatrist until Sayid points out that if he actually disclosed the things he’s done he would go to prison and Jack would probably be charged as an accessory after the fact. Then Jack tries to get him to go to a mosque, and when that doesn’t work he has the imam come to the house to talk to Sayid. After that, Sayid makes Jack promise to back off, and he does, though sometimes Sayid catches Jack staring at him with a worried frown, as if Sayid is a particularly tricky puzzle that he’s trying to figure out.

Jack is out one afternoon when there’s a knock on the door. Sayid ignores it, burrowing down further into the covers, but whoever it is won’t go away, knocking and knocking and finally pounding so hard that the door rattles in its frame.

Sayid gets up and shuffles down the hall, rubbing his face, still mostly asleep, all his instincts shot to shit. Or no, that isn’t right. His instincts are still there, he just doesn’t care enough to pay attention to them.

Whoever it is, they’re still pounding on the door when he cracks it open.

“What?!” he growls, then blinks in surprise.

“Jesus, it took you long enough! I pretty near broke my hand! You sleepin’ in the middle of the day, Ali?”

Whatever Sayid had expected, it isn’t Sawyer, looking unnaturally clean and well-groomed in jeans and a black t-shirt, sunglasses pushed back on his forehead.

“What are you doing here?” Sayid asks, feeling slow and dull-witted. Sawyer seems to flash and shine, all brightness and motion, as if he’s soaked up the energy of the sun. It makes Sayid want to shade his eyes when he looks at him.

“Just dropped by to say howdy-do,” Sawyer says, giving him a white-toothed smile. “Ain’t you gonna invite me in?”

Sayid steps back, and Sawyer strolls inside as if he owns the place.

“Did you know I was here?” Sayid asks, realizing Sawyer doesn’t seem in the least surprised to find him answering the door at Jack’s house.

“A little birdie told me.” Sawyer winks at him. Sayid frowns. A bird? That makes no sense, but then, Sawyer had often said things that did not made any sense to Sayid.

“Oh.” Sayid sits on the couch. He feels as if he’s in a fog. He brushes his hair back, only then realizing what a tangle it is. He can’t recall the last time he combed it. “I – uh. Jack isn’t here, if you – that is, I do not know when he will return.” He squints up at Sawyer, who is watching him with a little dissatisfied scowl on his face. “You are here to see him?”

“I’m here to see you, as a matter of fact,” Sawyer informs him.

“Me? Why?” He has no business with Sawyer, not that he can recall. He tries to think back, in case there is some reason Sawyer might have sought him out. Sayid isn’t thinking too clearly these days, but nothing comes to mind.

“We’re goin’ campin’.” Sawyer grins, as if he's just said something he finds quite amusing.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Camping.” Sawyer gestures to the front window. “Have a look-see.”

Sayid pulls back the drape and peers out into the driveway. Parked in front of the house is a large, beat-up, blue pickup truck with a camper mounted on the truck bed. It looks very out-of-place in Jack’s suburban neighborhood.

“I do not understand.” Sayid turns to Sawyer in confusion. “Is this a joke?”

“Nope.” Sawyer still looks mildly amused. “We’re goin’ on a road trip, Ali – you ‘n me. I’ve come to collect you.”

Sayid looks back and forth between Sawyer and the camper in the driveway as he tries to make sense of the situation.

“I am going camping – with you?”

“That’s right.” Sawyer gives him a crooked grin, a singe dimple appearing in his cheek. “The open road – purple mountain’s majesty, amber waves of grain and all that crap. What d’ya say to that?”

Sayid has no idea what to say to that. The idea is frankly preposterous, but he can’t formulate a reason to refuse. He has no reason to remain in LA, or to stay at Jack’s.

“And what if I have no wish to do this thing, Sawyer? What if I prefer to stay here?”

Sawyer shakes his head. “Unh-uh. Not an option. Doc’s got stuff he’s got to deal with, Sayid, and you’ve been takin’ up his attention long enough. He can’t look after you any more.”

“I do not need anyone to 'look after me',” Sayid says testily.

Sawyer sighs. “Sure, whatever you say. I’m takin’ you off his hands, regardless, and I don’t want to hear you bitchin’ and moanin’ about it. Now go get your stuff together, cuz I wanna get outta the city before rush hour hits.”

Sayid just stares at him for a moment, nonplussed. He feels like he ought to argue with Sawyer, insist on staying or, if he has indeed impinged on Jack for too long, leave on his own. But it seems like it will take so much energy to argue, far more energy than Sayid has. He has nowhere to go and no way to get there and in his heart he knows that, in the state he’s in, he won’t last a week on his own. The truth is he doesn’t much care where he is, in Jack’s guest room or Sawyer’s camper. It simply doesn’t matter.

“All right,” Sayid mumbles.

It takes him a long time to gather his things, though he only ends up with a single plastic bag containing all his worldly possessions. At some point, Sawyer comes in and leans against the door frame of the guest room, watching him pack. Sayid can feel Sawyer’s eyes upon him, and it makes him aware of how slowly he’s moving, of how his hands shake, how he keeps drifting off, forgetting what he’s doing, standing and staring at nothing. Sawyer doesn’t comment, just watches him, surprisingly patient.

“Ready?” he asks, when Sayid finally picks up the plastic bag. There is something in Sawyer’s eyes that’s a little too close to pity. It makes Sayid feel pathetic, which he supposes he is.

He nods, and lets Sawyer lead the way out of Jack’s house, open the passenger door to the pickup, lets him stow Sayid’s bag behind the seat.

“Buckle up,” Sawyer instructs him, so Sayid does, and they drive away.

“I should tell Jack that I'm leaving,” Sayid says when they’ve been driving for a half hour or so.

Sawyer turns to look at him, keen blue eyes taking him in head to toe. “He knows. Whose idea do you think this was?”

Of course it was Jack’s idea. Once Sawyer says it, it becomes obvious. Jack must have wanted to be rid of him and he somehow convinced Sawyer to take him. Maybe Jack even paid him. Yes, that must be it – Jack had paid Sawyer to come and take him away. Sayid knows very well that Sawyer doesn't do anything for free. He doesn’t feel angry, only vaguely ashamed. He folds his hands in his lap and sits silently as the miles and miles of city roll past.

Sawyer doesn’t talk. It surprises Sayid, because he tends to think of Sawyer as constantly running his mouth off, which is not exactly fair. After all, on the island Sawyer spent most of his time alone, sitting quietly with a book.

But still, Sawyer has changed, that much is obvious. Despite the façade of easy charm that he still wears effortlessly, there is something different, Sayid just isn’t sure yet what it is. Maybe it’s nothing more than the haunted look all of them wear now. Sayid thinks back to the way Sawyer burned with anger and hatred back when he first met him. There was passion there too, and drive and energy and a twisted kind of ambition. He wonders how much of that Sawyer left behind; wonders if it was a good thing for him to let go of it, or not.

Sawyer plays CDs, music that Sayid doesn’t know, other than that it is American rock and roll. Sawyer hums along quietly with some of the songs. Sayid thinks that he has a nice voice.

They leave the city behind, drive up into the hills, heading east. As evening falls, they pull into a scrubby campground dotted with eucalyptus trees, so Sayid guesses that Sawyer is serious about the camping. Despite the camper perched behind them, Sayid hadn't entirely convinced himself Sawyer was in earnest.

Sayid gets out of the truck and stretches his stiff muscles. It’s late summer and the air smells of dust and pine and the pleasantly medicinal scent of eucalyptus. It is warm, even after the sun has set. Sayid does not know what to do, so he sits at the picnic table and watches Sawyer set up camp, pulling folding chairs out of the camper, building a little fire, setting up a stove and lantern.

Sawyer makes dinner, then does the dishes. They sit silently until the fire dies down and the air turns chill.

“C’mon,” Sawyer says, getting to his feet. “Light’s out, Ali.”

The camper is surprisingly cozy, cramped but well-organized. Sayid’s bed is on the couch, Sawyer’s in the bunk above the truck’s cab. There is a light up there, and from where he lays Sayid can see the top of Sawyer’s head as he reclines against his pillows, reading a book. Sayid catches himself repeatedly opening his eyes in the dark, as if he’s checking to be sure Sawyer is still there. When he realizes what he's doing, he makes himself stop and resolutely keeps his eyes closed.

*

The next day is much like the one before it, and the one after that like its predecessor. They drive, they find a campground, Sawyer sets up camp and makes dinner, they eat, they go to bed. The only thing Sawyer asks of Sayid is that he assist with navigation, so he takes charge of the road atlas and the thick, dog-eared US camping guide and helps Sawyer find the highway exits and campgrounds. Other than that, Sawyer makes no demands on him. The silences between them are long and uninterrupted. Apparently, Sawyer doesn’t feel the need to make conversation, and Sayid is incapable of it.

Sawyer is good at keeping to himself. He doesn’t pry or tell stories or try to reminisce. He keeps his focus on the road, though sometimes Sayid swears he can feel Sawyer watching him. When he turns to look though, Sawyer is always staring straight ahead.

It takes Sayid about a week before he gets tired of watching Sawyer set up camp and decides to build the fire himself while Sawyer unloads folding chairs and cooking supplies, and then a few days longer before he asks Sawyer for a book to read in the evening before he turns out the little light above his bed. Sawyer gives him a book appropriately titled _On the Road_.

*

They’re barreling down the highway somewhere in west Texas and it would seem that Sawyer’s decided he’s in the mood to talk for a change. He’s going on and on about fishing and Sayid isn’t really listening, just staring out the window, empty-headed, letting the sound of Sawyer’s voice fill up the space enough to keep his thoughts at bay.

“I have never been fishing,” he mumbles, just to make it seem like he’s contributing to the conversation.

“You never helped Jin out, on the island?” Sawyer asks in disbelief.

Sayid snorts. “As if you did.”

“Hey, I fished! I fished plenty.”

Sayid does not believe him, but he lets it go. “I had other things to do,” he says, but apparently that’s the wrong thing to say, because the next thing he knows Sawyer is saying _oh hell no, now that just ain’t right_.

“But I do not even _like_ fish,” Sayid protests as they pull up in front of a sporting goods store two towns down the road.

“Well good, cuz we ain’t gonna eat ‘em.” Sawyer slams the truck door and heads into the store, and since he doesn’t want to sit and bake in the Texas heat, Sayid follows.

“What do we do with the fish, if we do not plan to eat them?” he asks, as Sawyer compares fishing rods with a critical eye.

“We throw ‘em back,” Sawyer says.

Sayid blinks at him in incomprehension and then he huffs a little laugh. “But Sawyer, that makes no sense. You catch a fish and then you let it go?”

“That’s right.”

“But _why_?”

“For fun, Sayid. You do remember fun, don’t you?” Sawyer waves his hands around. “Somewhere back in the mists of time, even you must’ve had fun at some point.” He snorts. “Or maybe not. Sometimes I forget who I’m talkin’ to.”

“On the island, when there was not enough food...” Sayid shakes his head. “To think of just throwing a fish back… I wonder what Jin would think.” He shakes his head again, more emphatically. His heart is pounding a bit too fast, the way it does sometimes when he thinks about the island.

Sawyer’s hand lands on his shoulder, large and warm. “Things are different now,” he says, quietly enough that the father and son at the other end of the row looking at inflatable rafts won’t hear. “You can throw a fish back, Sayid, no harm done. We’re just gonna go fishin’, okay? It’ll be fine.”

Sayid nods and doesn’t say anything more. Sawyer squeezes his shoulder and lets go, but he stays where he is, standing a little closer than before and Sayid is grateful for it. He’s discovered that when Sawyer is close, it keeps everything else farther away.

Sayid thinks fishing is silly. There is too much waiting, too little to do, and he decides catching fish and then releasing them is wasteful and cruel. He complains and his line gets tangled and he cuts his finger on a fish hook. Despite all that, it’s the best day he’s had in a long time.

Afterward, they’re laying on the dry grass near the shore of the lake, Sayid staring up mindlessly at the sky and Sawyer is chewing on a strand of grass like some kind of stereotypical hillbilly. Sawyer tells him he’s the worst fisherman he’s ever met and Sayid crankily reminds Sawyer that he grew up in the middle of the fucking desert, and what does Sawyer expect?

Sawyer just cocks his head, a glint in his eye. “Never thought I’d say it, but it’s good to see you bein’ a pain in the ass again.”

Sayid opens his mouth to protest that he’s not being a pain in the ass, that it’s Sawyer who is the pain in the ass, then snaps it closed when he realizes that he _is_ being a pain in the ass. He swallows, the unfamiliarity of it hitting him hard. It’s been a long time since he’s felt much of anything – even feeling annoyed is overwhelming.

They camp at the lake. Sawyer makes macaroni and cheese out of a box and Sayid decides it is one of the best things he’s ever eaten.

“I like this,” he says, shoveling another forkful of bright orange noodles into his mouth. Sawyer grunts in agreement. Sayid picks up the discarded macaroni and cheese box and turns it over to read the list of ingredients. He wants to know what makes it taste so good.

“You don’t wanna read that.” Sawyer grabs it out of his hand and tosses it on the fire. He grins at Sayid. “Ignorance is bliss.”

Sayid leans back in his camp chair and watches the box burn. Sawyer is right, there are just some things that it is better not to know.

Sayid gets up in the middle of the night and walks down to the lake. He can’t sleep and it’s stuffy in the camper. Outside the air is warm but fresh, the campground quiet. He realizes that he could kill every person camped there, go from tent to camper to RV, and slit their throats, one by one. It would be so quick and easy, practically effortless. The smell of blood comes to him and he remembers the warm, sticky feel of it on his fingers. There would not even be time enough for the victims to call out before the knife did its work. They should be afraid, he thinks, but ignorance is bliss. A killer in their midst, and the innocents sleep on, unaware.

The lake is motionless, smooth as glass. Sayid wades into it, feeling the mud sink beneath his feet. He thinks about swimming out into it, but he doesn’t trust that if he did he’d ever come back to shore, so he stays where he is, feet rooted to the lake bottom.

In the gray of the hour before dawn Sawyer wakes him, a strange, sad look on his face. Sayid is curled up in the dirt at the edge of the lake, dried mud caked on his feet. Neither of them say anything. It’s too early and Sayid doesn’t have any words. He gets up and follows Sawyer back to the camper, lies down on the bed and doesn’t complain when Sawyer covers him with a blanket. He can feel Sawyer standing there watching him after he closes his eyes, but he doesn’t want to see the look on his face so he lays still and waits for Sawyer to climb up to his bunk.

The touch to his forehead is a shock. He stiffens involuntarily and ruthlessly represses a shiver when Sawyers fingers glide over his skin, pushing his hair out of his face.

“What’m I gonna do with you?” Sawyer murmurs. Sayid remains steadfastly silent. It’s a rhetorical question, in any case.

After a moment, Sawyer moves away, and Sayid listens carefully until he’s sure that Sawyer has gone back to bed.

*

They camp in the Smokies, at a campground with a view of ancient, rounded mountains. There’s a path that leads out of it into the woods and eventually, a couple miles in, to an abandoned cabin. They sit on the dilapidated front porch and munch on something Sawyer claims is called ‘gorp’. Sayid finds it hard to believe that the mix of nuts and fruit and chocolate has such a ridiculous name. He suspects that Sawyer is making it up.

“I grew up around here,” Sawyer volunteers after a long silence. Sayid looks at him in surprise. It’s the first time that he can remember Sawyer mentioning where he’s from.

“Indeed?” he says, just to show he’s interested and in the hopes that Sawyer will confide more.

“Yeah. On the other side of those mountains.” Sawyer gestures to the hazy, blue humps in the distance. He leans back onto his elbows and shakes his hair back. The sun gleams on the skin at Sawyer’s collarbone, a warm, caramel gold. Sayid catches himself staring and looks quickly away.

“We could go there,” he offers. “To your home – if you would like to visit it. Is there – family, or – ?”

Sawyer snorts. “No one to go back to, and I wouldn’t even if there were. I ain’t the sort for family ties.”

“But your parents, do they still live there?”

Sawyer looks at him and Sayid cannot read his expression. “My parents are dead,” Sawyer says.

Sayid nods. “Mine as well. For many years.”

“Mine died when I was eight,” Sawyer states. Sayid waits. He knows there is more to come. “My dad shot my mom, then shot himself.” Sayid blinks, but manages to school his face into stillness. Sawyer tilts his head up into the sun and closes his eyes. “Woulda shot me too, but I hid under the bed.”

Sayid looks down at his hands resting uselessly in his lap. “Our lives were shaped by violence,” his says quietly. “I cannot recall a time before I knew what death looked like.” He glances at Sawyer, whose eyes are still closed. “I am sorry about your parents.” Sawyer grimaces, but doesn’t look at him. Sayid knows he does not want the sympathy, but nonetheless, Sayid needs to offer it. “No wonder we cannot change who we are.”

“Fuck that,” Sawyer snaps, glaring at him. “Don’t give me that defeatist bullshit. I damn well changed. I better’ve changed, with all the shit I’ve been through. You think I haven’t changed?”

“No, you have,” Sayid admits. “I'm sorry, it is clear that you have changed, Sawyer. It is I who have not.”

Sawyer leans forward, until he is very close, so close that Sayid has the crazy thought that Sawyer is going to kiss him, only the expression on his face is not that of a man bent on romance. Quite the opposite. “It’s not too late, you stupid bastard,” Sawyer hisses.

Sayid would beg to differ, but he doesn’t say so. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even rise to the bait of the insult as he once would have, a long time ago, when he cared about such things.

After a time they get to their feet. Sawyer stretches, arms above his head, back arched. His t-shirt rides up, revealing hipbones, smooth skin, a line of hair leading downwards from his navel. Again, Sayid finds himself staring. Again, he quickly looks away.

*

Sawyer makes him sign a postcard to Jack.

 _Dear Jackass,_ Sawyer writes. _The weather’s holding, the truck hasn’t broken down yet, and with luck we’ll make it to Montana before the snow comes. Sayid’s still a pain in the ass, but then you know that. Takes one to know one, right?_

Sawyer hands him the pen.

“You expect me to sign a card in which I am referred to as ‘a pain in the ass’,” Sayid asks incredulously.

“Just sign it,” Sawyer insists. “Otherwise Doc’ll think I’ve done away with you.”

So Sayid signs, right beneath Sawyer’s sprawling, illegible signature.

*

The leaves have turned by the time they reach Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, and the woods are striped in brilliant swaths of red and orange and gold. Sayid has never seen anything like it.

They go for a long walk through the woods. It’s quiet, their footfalls cushioned on fallen leaves.

“Stop it,” Sawyer says. Sayid turns around, a question on his lips.

“This ain’t the jungle.”

It takes a moment for Sayid to realize what Sawyer means – that he was walking too carefully, too quietly. He doesn’t say anything, just nods once and moves forward, but now he feels awkward, conscious of every movement, too focused on his body, trying to decide if he’s walking normally or if he’s still in stealth mode. He can’t tell the difference.

The trail leads up the side of a hill, spills out onto a large granite ledge near the top. Below, there is a valley painted in streaks of bright color, a dark green river snaking through it. When Sayid looks down he sees that the ledge sheers off abruptly. The fall to the rocks below would be uninterrupted, an efficient downward plummet to oblivion. He sways a bit, feeling the heavy, narcotic pull of empty space.

Sawyer’s hand closes around his arm and pulls him back and Sayid wants to wail in protest, wants to thrash and bite and kick. But he only stands and stares at the ground, his hands clenched so tightly that his nails cut into the skin of his palms. He’s trembling and for a moment he feels so weak and afraid that he is sure he will cry.

“You’re gonna have to go through me first,” Sawyer says. Sayid glances up and finds Sawyer glaring at him like he’d rather punch him in the face than speak to him at the moment. “And I got no intention of making it easy for you.”

Sayid is angry and ashamed. He feels himself teetering on the brink of control, about to break. If he can’t break apart on the rocks at the foot of the cliff, he’s going to break apart some other time, some other way, sometime in the very near future, and he has a feeling that falling off a cliff will be a lot less messy.

“C’mon,” Sawyer gives him a little shove between the shoulder blades. “It’s gettin’ dark.”

Sayid can feel Sawyer’s eyes on him for the whole long, silent walk back to the truck.

*

“You were gettin’ better,” Sawyer says that night, as they’re sitting beside the fire. He’s sipping on a bottle of whiskey. Its cold at night now and Sayid sits close enough to the fire that he has to be careful that the soles of his shoes don’t melt. “What the fuck happened?”

Sayid’s head snaps up in shock. They don’t talk about this. They don’t talk about anything other than the scenery and the songs on the radio and what they’re going to have for dinner that night. They certainly don’t discuss Sayid’s state of mind and whether it’s better or worse than the day they left LA two months ago.

“There is no ‘getting better’, Sawyer,” Sayid says. “I do not even know what that means.” He pokes at the fire with a stick, watches sparks rise up. “I don’t think – I don’t think it is possible to – to fix what is wrong with me.”

Sawyer sighs. “Okay, you’re right. So, there’s no gettin’ better. You just have to figure how to be better at bein’ broken then, cuz you’re doin’ a damn shitty job of it at the moment.”

Sayid’s breath hitches. “Is that what you do?”

Sawyer’s lips twist into a humorless smile. “I guess.” He meets Sayid’s eyes and Sayid thinks that right then at that moment, Sawyer looks more weary than he has ever seen him. “I’m good at bein’ broken, Sayid. Had a lifetime’s practice before we even crashed on that fuckin’ island.” He takes a sip of whiskey. “It ain’t so bad, once you get used to it.”

They sit and stare into the flames, no sound but the crackling of the fire.

“Whatever Jack paid you, it cannot have been enough.” It’s hard to meet Sawyer’s eyes, but Sayid doesn’t expect to see the look of complete surprise on his face.

“ _Paid me_? What the – you think Jack _paid me_?” Sawyer shakes his head in amazement. “You poor, dumb motherfucker. Jesus. And I thought _I_ was fucked up.”

“I do not understand. Then why?”

Sawyer’s lips thin to an angry line. “Maybe one day you’ll figure that one out on your own.” He gets to his feet. “I ain’t gonna tell you."

Sayid watches him disappear into the camper. Later, when he goes to bed, the light is out in Sawyer’s bunk, but Sayid can tell by the sound of his breathing that he isn’t asleep.

*

It rains hard the next day. Sawyer lounges on the couch, reading and ignoring him. Sayid is ostensibly reading too, but in actuality he’s trying to reach a decision. Sawyer had taken him in of his own free will, out of the questionable goodness of his heart. What is in it for him? Sayid cannot say.

He’s always known Sawyer is a loner. It doesn’t make sense that he’d give up his privacy as he has, especially not for Sayid, who isn’t even what one could call a friend. Or at least, he hadn’t been a friend. Are they friends now? Sayid finds it odd that he doesn’t know the answer.

Sayid thinks back to the beginning, those first terrible days on the island. Sawyer had been a different man then. Younger – less gray in his hair, fewer lines on his face – but angry – one of the angriest people Sayid had ever met. He still remembers the instant animosity they’d felt towards each other that had exploded into violence almost immediately – and then had led to more violence – worse violence – just few days later. He remembers how he’d wanted Sawyer dead, and how he’d almost gotten his wish. He remembers Sawyer facing down that bear, leaving on the raft, rushing headlong into danger at every opportunity. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that back then Sawyer hadn’t been overly attached to the idea of staying alive.

Sayid thinks maybe that’s why Sawyer has done what he’s done. Maybe he understands something of the way Sayid feels. Maybe he’s the only one who could.

Sayid makes his decision then. He decides to try. He figures he owes Sawyer at least that much. The very idea of it is almost more exhausting and frightening than he can bear, but he doesn’t let that dissuade him. He’s done a lot of impossible things in his life. Living would just be the latest in a long string of them.

*

There are a few days in Minnesota when the temperature climbs to almost 80 degrees. ‘Indian Summer’, Sawyer calls it. The sunlight has the clear, golden cast of autumn, insects buzz in the tall grass, the breeze is warm, drying the sweat on Sayid’s skin. They camp at another lake, spend the days doing nothing. Sawyer makes no move to leave and Sayid lets Sawyer make the decisions.

The campground is almost empty, just a few RVs grouped around the bathrooms. The other campers, senior citizens by the look of them, nod and wave when Sawyer and Sayid walk past, but don’t try to make conversation. Sayid thinks there’s probably something about the two of them that makes people keep their distance.

During the day they swim in the cool water of the lake, then sit on their fold-out chaise lounges on the shore, shifting them along the water line as the sun moves across the sky. Sawyer is reading _The DaVinci Code_. He complains about it constantly – the bad writing, the ridiculous plot, the poor characterization – but he can barely put it down, so Sayid thinks it must be better than he’s letting on.

Sayid writes in the notebook he bought back in Fort Smith. He’s been writing about where they go, what they do – facts and figures, mileage, altitude, population. He sketches too, even though he’s no artist. And he makes lists. He has lists of the places they’ve visited and what they’ve done at each one; a list of new words in English and another of unfamiliar expressions; a list of foods he’d never heard of before – grits, chitlins, okra, chicken-fried steak, pot roast. He keeps track of what they spend and where they stay. There’s a list of things he’s heard of that he thinks he might like to see someday if they keep going – Rocky Mountains, Grand Canyon, Death Valley. It’s short and the writing is smaller than his other lists.

Though it makes him cringe with embarrassment to even think of it, there is a list of words he associates with Sawyer. He keeps telling himself that he needs to tear that page out and throw it away, but instead he just keeps adding to it. ‘Shine’, he writes, hating himself. But the rays of light are hitting Sawyer’s hair in just such a way that there’s no other word for it.

He’s aware of Sawyer all the time now, knows his mood simply by the sound of his breathing, can tell when he’s tired and ready to relinquish the wheel, can _feel_ his presence as clearly as he can see him. He knows the rhythms of his days and the way he smells and how he’s cranky in the morning before his coffee and drowsy after lunch and charming and talkative when he drinks and how he needs time alone with a book every day or else he gets out of sorts.

It’s something new, this awareness, and it makes Sayid realize that something has changed. For a long time, he was barely aware of the outside world, but lately the beauty of their surroundings has been striking him in sudden, visceral flashes, almost painful in their intensity. And he is aware of other people – well, mostly of one other person. He’s _too_ aware of him, in a way that won’t leave him be. He’s vaguely annoyed by this distraction, and at the same time grateful for it. He’d much rather be obsessed with someone else’s life than with his own.

It takes him a surprising amount of time to pinpoint what it is he’s feeling. When he thinks back, he realizes that it was somewhere around that disastrous fishing trip in Texas that he first felt it, a pain in his chest like a hand squeezing his heart when he looks at Sawyer. He’d thought it was guilt and shame at the time, but now he knows that wasn’t all there was to it.

From Texas to Minnesota, that’s how long it took him. The realization hits him like a ton of bricks in a moment notable only for its ordinariness. Sawyer had gone into town to buy groceries – Sayid tends to stay away from towns and stores and anywhere he’d have to interact with people – and they're standing in the kitchen area of the camper, stowing boxes and cans in the cupboards when Sayid pulls four boxes of macaroni and cheese out of a paper bag.

“You always get this,” Sayid remarks.

“Well, it’s somebody’s favorite,” says Sawyer. He’s not looking at Sayid but he’s got this smile on his face, as if he’s pleased about something, as if he’s _happy_. And Sayid realizes then and there, standing in the tiny kitchen, holding a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese, that somehow and against all that’s logical and practical and reasonable, he’s fallen in love with Sawyer.

Sawyer glances at him, then looks again when he sees Sayid is just standing there, frozen in place, the box of pasta in his hand.

“What?” Sawyer asks. “Don’t tell me you’ve decided you don’t like it anymore?”

Sawyer is watching him with a puzzled frown on his face and his hair is hanging in his eyes. He hasn’t shaved in a couple of days and Sayid knows he hasn’t bathed recently other than taking a dip in the lake, and he smells like sweat, just like he did on the island. His t-shirt is ratty and has a stain on the chest, his jeans have holes in them and he’s wearing flip-flops. He’s got a loaf of bread in one hand and a jar of mayonnaise in the other and he’s _beautiful_. There’s nothing romantic about Sawyer in that moment – nothing that should make Sayid’s heart pound and his breath stutter. He can only stare, amazed and overwhelmed at how much he wants this man.

For a moment they stand there, looking at each other, and then Sawyer deliberately places the bread and the mayonnaise on the counter, takes the box from Sayid’s hand and puts it beside the bread.

“Took you long enough,” he whispers roughly, and then he crowds Sayid back against the counter, cradles the back of his head in one big hand and kisses him. Sawyer’s kiss isn't hesitant or unsure. It’s as if he’s got no doubt that Sayid will let him – will welcome him. He kisses firmly, unhurriedly, thoroughly, as though they’ve got all the time in the world, and Sayid really needs some time – first, to register what is happening: he is being kissed, a novel experience in itself, and, even stranger, the person doing the kissing is Sawyer. It takes Sayid a moment to process that before he can even begin to respond, but when his brain finally catches up with what’s happening, he moans and presses his body hungrily against Sawyer’s, burying his hands in Sawyer’s hair, holding him too tightly, suddenly afraid that this is some kind of joke or trick or hallucination and that he’ll blink and it’ll be over and they’ll just be putting groceries away again.

It feels good, Sawyer’s arms around him, Sawyer’s body aligned to his, Sawyer’s thigh between his legs – even his height, the way Sayid’s head tips back and Sawyer’s hair hangs down, brushing his face. Sayid’s not used to kissing a man, doesn’t think he would have liked it once. But kissing Sawyer makes him feel protected, which is something he hadn’t even known he longed to feel.

Sawyer’s hands slide down his back to cup his ass and Sayid’s mouth falls open as a wave of heat travels up his body. Sawyer’s tongue plunges into his mouth and Sayid groans, amazed at his reaction to this, amazed but disinclined to question it. He just lets it happen, opens his mouth wider, slides his tongue along Sawyer’s, licks and nips and kisses. Sawyer’s hips grind into his with the unmistakable rhythm of fucking and it hits Sayid suddenly that he and Sawyer are about to have sex and he wants it – he wants it so much – more than he can remember wanting anything for years and years.

Sawyer slides a hand around his hip, palms Sayid’s cock where it’s trapped beneath his pants, presses gently, inquiringly. Sayid’s hips surge forward of their own accord, a wordless answer to Sawyer’s wordless question, but Sayid says it anyway, just to be sure there’s no misunderstanding.

“Yes.” He kisses Sawyer hard and quick, mumbling against his lips. “Please. Yes.”

“’kay,” Sawyer mumbles in turn. He steps backward, drawing Sayid with him, his hands still clutching Sayid’s ass. “Let’s just – _fuck_ – lemme –”

Somehow they make it to the couch without breaking the kiss and Sawyer gives him enough of a shove to send him sprawling. He looks up in time to catch Sawyer’s grin before he pounces, landing heavily on top of Sayid.

“ _Ooof_ ”, Sayid gasps, but he’s smiling as Sawyer’s mouth reconnects with his, opening wide and wet and sweet and demanding and Sayid thinks that maybe if this can just go on forever, maybe then everything will be okay.

*

They’re in South Dakota and Sayid wakes up one morning and leaves the warmth of their bed, pulls on sweat pants and the fleece jacket and hat that Sawyer made him buy the first time the temperature dipped below freezing. Outside the ground is hard and the half-full water bottle that he left out last night has chunks of ice floating in it. Sayid can feel the cold air travel into his lungs as he inhales. It feels like he can follow the path of every atom of oxygen as it moves through his body. It feels clean, pure.

He stands at the edge of their campsite and pees into the brush. The campground is on a rise and there is a view of striated canyon walls, glowing in tones of rose and peach and ochre in the early morning light. There’s little vegetation, miles of twisted earth and stone, bare, rocky soil, flat-topped buttes and uplifted towering spires. It is desolate and raw and harsh. Sayid thinks it should be ugly, but he finds it very beautiful.

He hears Sawyer approaching but he doesn’t turn around. He tenses only a little as Sawyer’s arms slide around his waist. There’s a cup of coffee in Sawyer’s hand and Sayid takes it from him. It’s strong and dark, the way he likes it. Sawyer likes his weaker, so they make two pots every morning, one for each of them.

“Mornin’,” Sawyer’s voice is a low rumble in his ear.

“Good morning.” Maybe it is, he thinks.

“’S cold.” Sawyer’s nose is like an ice cube against Sayid’s neck, but his lips are warm. Sayid hums in agreement and leans back, letting Sawyer take his weight.

“I wanna go see that dig today,” Sawyer says. He’s been talking for days about some archaeological site where dinosaur fossils have been found. “You don’t gotta come, if you’d rather hang out here.”

“No, I’ll come,” Sayid might not be as interested in dinosaurs as Sawyer is, but he doesn’t want to miss out on Sawyer’s enthusiasm.

They’re quiet for a moment. A bird calls, loud and raucous, and Sayid catches a flash of black and white out of the corner of his eye.

“Magpie,” Sawyer tells him and Sayid mentally adds it to the list of new animals he has seen on this trip – bison, bighorn sheep, eagle, prairie dog, pronghorn antelope. Later, he will add ‘magpie’ to the list in his notebook.

“Come back to bed,” Sawyer’s voice is low in his ear. He pushes his hips against Sayid’s ass and the promise of a slow, sleepy fuck sends warmth into every cell of Sayid’s body. Sawyer takes his hand, leads him back to the camper, and without a backward glance Sayid leaves the frost-tinged morning to thaw out on its own.

*

Sawyer says ‘deserve’’s got nothing to do with anything; that life doesn’t work that way. He says ‘life is for the living’ and that all he and Sayid can do is try to live the best they can and do their damnedest not to fuck anything else up. Sawyer says he spent a lot of years wanting to die. He says life gets better once you decide you want to live.

Sayid hands himself over, body and soul. He doesn’t have the strength to stand on his own anymore and Sawyer says he won’t let him give up and that means Sawyer has to carry the weight for the both of them. It isn’t fair, but Sawyer says life isn’t fair. And he says he doesn’t mind either, which Sayid doesn’t understand. Sawyer doesn’t owe him a thing – Sawyer’s one of the many who’ve got a legitimate claim on Sayid’s life – and yet he smiles at him and tells jokes that Sayid doesn’t know how to laugh at and makes him do ridiculous things like fish and go to baseball games and stop at roadside attractions such as the Giant Ball of String and the Corn Palace, and at night he puts his hands and his mouth on Sayid’s body and makes him forget about everything – gives him the blessed gift of forgetfulness that is the sweetest gift of all.

None of it makes any sense, so Sayid has stopped trying to figure it out. Now he just goes along - rides ‘shotgun’ as Sawyer calls it, lets Sawyer pick the destination and tries to keep them on the right track until they get there and Sawyer steps on the brake and puts the truck into ‘park’, turns to Sayid with a grin and announces, “We’re here”.

*

“It is so beautiful here.” Sayid looks around in wonder. They’re driving through Montana, big mountains and bigger sky, forests and plains and winding silver-glinting rivers. They haven’t seen another car in nearly an hour. “I could live here,” Sayid says. “In this valley. It is so beautiful. I think I could be –” he almost says ‘happy here’, but he realizes in time that is asking too much. “I might like to live here,” he finishes instead.

“It’ll get damn cold ‘round here in the winter,” Sawyer warns. “Real damn cold.”

“But you would keep me warm.” Sayid feels shy as soon as it was out of his mouth, shy and awkward and his face feels hot. Sawyer smiles though, and Sayid thinks it was worth the embarrassment to see those dimples.

“Sure would,” Sawyer says and winks.

“I have never lived anywhere cold.” Sayid tries to imagine the plains blanketed in snow, wind slicing down the valley, mountains covered in white. It would be quiet and lonely and peaceful.

“Me neither.”

“We could find someplace isolated,” Sayid ventures, looking over at Sawyer to check his reaction.

“Out here you could probably go for months without seein’ anyone,” Sawyer says “I think you’d get pretty sick of the sight of me by the time spring rolled around."

“I would not get sick of the sight of you,” Sayid says, watching him. “I could never get sick of the sight of you.” He doesn’t blush this time, but Sawyer does, a rosy flush creeping up from the collar of his shirt until it reaches his hairline. He tries to repress a pleased smile, but Sayid sees it tugging the corner of his lip upward.

Sayid turns his attention forward, to the long ribbon of road stretching out in front of them, mountains in the distance, hills on either side, brown pastures edged by barbed wire fence.

Five miles down the road Sawyer slams on the brakes, puts the truck into reverse and backs up, comes to a screeching stop. There’s a long, rutted drive and at the end of it they can just see a house tucked into a stand of evergreens at the base of a hill. It’s two-story, log framed, with a big porch, a green metal roof and a stone chimney. There’s a barn and a shed and no neighbors for miles and a “For Lease” sign tacked onto the fence. 

It’s perfect.

They look at each other and laugh.

 


End file.
